


Behind the Dusty Shelves

by orphan_account



Series: Three Kisses [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Darling Pan - Freeform, F/M, Kissing, storybrooke!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:00:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first kiss Sam and Stacey share, behind the dusty shelves of an old toy store.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Dusty Shelves

The First Kiss.

 

Stacey Fawkes has always been a stubborn sort of girl.

Obedient, yes, but also tenacious in standing her ground. She’s also a _contrary_ type, in a way. Again, if a teacher or parent tells her _do your homework_ she’ll go right ahead and do it – but if they should tell her _you have an answer for everything, Stacey,_ she’s the sort to immediately begin outlining why that’s a good thing.

It is the combination of these traits that gets her into the whole mess, really.

It starts with the first snows.

The beginning of December is the time when Stacey likes to get her Christmas shopping done, and she’s always been thorough when it comes to the holiday season, so obviously she does her research. She compiles lists – _maybe, yes, no, good for birthday, for future reference_ – and questionnaires, scribbles down a budget for every person in her handy daily planner, and visits every store in town.

Well, not _every_ store.

Greene’s Toys, the rustic-looking building just across the street from her favourite haunt, the diner. The stuff in there is all junk, in her opinion. Stupid pranks, most of it; whoopee cushions, fake vomit, fart bombs. Everything her little brother loves in this world, of course. And she can’t go in. It’s run by a middle-aged guy with sandy hair and a scar, who’s nice enough once he stops grunting and starts talking.

It’s his nephew that’s the problem.

Sam Greene, resident bane of Stacey’s existence. Mister Tall, Dark and Delinquent. He who lives to irritate the life out of her, apparently. He takes a perverse kind of glee in it.

And he _loves_ that store. Spends most of his time there, even looks after it when his uncle is away on business. Every time she’s ducked in to have a look, the lanky boy is always _there,_ watching her peruse the toy-stacked shelves, an easy smirk on his lips. He leans against the register, arms crossed, eyes dark with something that makes Stacey _shiver._

(in another life, she’d run just so he could chase, but as it is she only bites her lip and looks away)

At school, he hardly leaves her alone. He joins her in the hallway, walks her to classes, chats idly in a way that makes her uneasy. He even offers to carry her _books,_ sometimes, an offer she always refuses. He just shrugs, smirking.

Sam pushes her boundaries, too – brushes his fingers along her spine, boxes her in until her back is against the lockers and her chest inches from his – grinning that stupid grin while he does so.

Once, in study hall, he kept his hand on her knee for the _entire_ class. Under the table, his palm resting on her bare leg. And for some reason, she didn’t smack it away. He didn’t move it, didn’t look at her; just concentrated on his work (for once), his mouth quirked at the edges.

(in the blanket of night she moves her hand from her knee _up_ and pretends it’s his)

Stacey’s friends – Ruby, Tink – waggle their eyebrows and tell her to _take advantage, girl_ , but when she looks at Sam Greene she feels torn. He’s attractive, for sure; tall and lean, with good hair and an impish look about him. When he steps close to pluck a piece of string from her hair – _got something there, Fawkes_ – she feels her heart beat faster and arousal strum low in her abdomen, but she can’t help but think of how if she starts, she won’t be able to stop.

So, she avoids him. Goes a different way to classes, pretends not to hear him call her name out in the hallway.

(pretends not to feel regret)

The worst thing is – he knows. He knows that she’s fighting against her attraction to him, keeping her reputation as _good girl_ at the forefront of her mind, and how much it’ll be ruined if she’s caught with the boy who breaks rules more than he obeys them.

He manages to corner her on Friday afternoon.

“Started your Christmas shopping yet, Fawkes?” he asks, conversationally, leaning against the locker beside hers. She doesn’t ask how he knows she likes to start early.

He’s wearing a green beanie shoved over his dark locks, and as he grins at her she’s overwhelmed with the desire to either kiss him or pull it over his stupid face – which one, she’s not sure.

Stacey puts her books away quickly, grabbing her bag and stuffing homework inside. “Yeah.”

“I hear your brother likes my store.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You gonna buy something from there?”

“No.”

At this, he laughs. “ _’Course_ not,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps, angered by his smug tone.

“Well,” Sam picks at his fingernails, “you’re scared at how much you want me.”

A short, sharp bark of laughter – more surprise than amusement – tumbles from her lips. “ _Want_ you?”

“Yes,” he insists, “and you’re too _chicken-shit_ to come into the store because you’re afraid you’ll jump me.”

“I am not _chicken-shit_ ,” she exclaims, outraged, and he shrugs.

“Prove it, Fawkes.”

She leaves, then, walking away from the echo of his mocking delight, the challenge still ringing in her ears.

It is two days later that she decides to meet his dare. Two nights of _frustration,_ of dreams plagued by wicked, sprightly things that bear Sam’s face. She tosses and turns, wakes to sweaty sheets and the burn of kisses that never happened on her skin.

Stacey arms herself with her purse, ready to breeze in and breeze out accordingly, making the hastiest purchase of her life. She raises her chin, ignoring the dubious glances the passers-by shoot her as she sucks in a deep breath from her nose, and pushes open the door.

The bell above it tinkles, announcing her presence to the dimly-lit store within.

Rows of towering shelves, stacked tight with all sorts of toys and pranks form a kind of maze to work through. Wind-up monkeys with cymbals clasped in their wooden paws grin down at her, their garish red lips stretched wide. Jars of fluorescent putty are grouped at the base of the shelves, as if waiting for her to stumble over them.

The door closes behind her, and she jumps.

(in another life, she would have been too angry to hear it, too blinded by her rage at his pure _cheek_ )

The floors are bedecked with dark wood, the walls painted a forest green. Naked bulbs hang from the ceiling, casting weird shadows across her skin. There’s a musty smell in the air, combined with the raw scent of paint and chemicals. As always, the store’s kind of creepy.

Stacey combs her fingers through her hair, unconsciously smoothing down the collar of her pastel coat. The register’s at the back, but he’s heard the bell for sure and will be making his way to the door – customer service.

Just as she hears the familiar, loping footsteps that Sam’s sneakers make against the carpeting, she practically dives down the _F_ through _H_ aisle (despite his scruffy nature, he and his uncle are surprisingly organised when it comes to prank paraphernalia), towards the fart bombs. She risks a quick glance behind her and sees _him,_ his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, looking round confusedly. She ducks behind a shelf, peering through the cans of smelly explosives.

“Fawkes?” he asks. “Fawkes, you there?”

Stacey grimaces. If she hides, he’ll still know she’s there – and she’ll have effectively lost the dare, being (in his words) too chicken-shit to come out and face him.

“I’m here,” she calls, stepping out into the aisle, “just looking at the… uh, the fart bombs.”

Sam lifts his eyebrows in surprise, raising a hand to run it through his hair. “The fart bombs.” He says, his tone tinged with amusement.

She raises her chin. “Yes. Ben loves fart bombs.”

“Uh-huh.” He plucks at the faded grey sweater he wears with one hand, the other still in his hair, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hair is messy, his head tilted to the side, patchy jeans flattering his lean shape.

 _Sexy asshole,_ she thinks. “He does!” she tells him, indignantly.

“Uh-huh. You sure you’re not here to take advantage of me?”

Stacey rolls her eyes at him. “In your _dreams,_ Sam.”

He gives a cocky smirk, scraping his thumbnail across his bottom lip. “Surprisingly apt, Fawkes.”

Despite her desperate mental pleas for her body not to, a flush creeps up her neck and a simmering heat twists in her belly. She clears her throat. “Don’t.” she orders, brusquely.

“Don’t _what?_ ”

“Don’t… do that. Say those things.”

“Oh,” Sam breathes, “but I like to. You’re cute when you’re hot for me, Fawkes.”

(in another place, another dream, she would have taken him then and there – made him shudder out her name – made him _come_ – but now she only thinks of his hand on her knee and the ache between her thighs)

She swallows, her throat dry. “What?” she hisses, and she feels it – that _rage,_ the red-hot anger that doesn’t _quite_ belong to her. It’s from somewhere else, deep inside her soul, somewhere long-forgotten. It speaks of dreams, of places she’s been but hasn’t, of evil boys and wolf girls, of blood and teeth and – and –

Sam doesn’t seem fazed, not like the others.

Stacey, of course, has a reputation as the sweetest, kindest little thing in Storybrooke. The exception to her lovely disposition stands before her. When she _does_ show her temper – that fiery, vengeful thing that seems to wrench her skin aside and bare its teeth, kindness forgotten – people are always shocked.

 _Who knew,_ they all say, _who knew she was hiding that?_

One of her deepest, darkest secrets (that she knows of) is the little bottle of pills she keeps on her bedside table. One in the morning, one at night, or the slightest thing will make her scream and rage and bite. Years of therapy have helped her keep a handle on it, but still.

Her dads have managed to keep her ‘episodes’ on the down low, but every now and then town gossip re-circulates the story of how darling, unassuming Stacey Fawkes once smashed every window in her house after an argument with a friend. They recount, wide-eyed, how she was found ranting and raving in the street – a tiny girl, ten years old – with glass shards covering her hands and arms, blood dripping onto her white dress.

It’s been seven years, give or take, but in certain lighting the scars still show.

“You’re cute when you’re hot for me,” Sam repeats, “like now. You want me, I can tell.”

“I do _not_.”

He chuckles derisively. “Please, Fawkes, spare me. I _know_ ,” he steps closer, wetting his lips, “I know what you were thinking that day.”

“ _What_ day?” she snaps, even though she’s perfectly aware _what day._

“Study hall. You wanted my hand higher, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“ _Yes_. You wanted me to –”

“ _Shut. Up._ ” Stacey gives a furious growl, snatching a bright green can with a plume of cartoon gas stencilled on the front, and marching towards him. She doesn’t stop til she’s inches away, toe to toe.

He looks down at her, white teeth playing with his lip, an eyebrow raised.

“Move.”

When Sam laughs again, it’s a little breathless. He looms over her, his grin sharp as his tongue. “Make me.” He murmurs, his voice low and throaty, and his hands grip her waist.

She’s curling her fingers in his sweater before she can think, pulling him down to her level.

Every ounce of common sense has cleared from her head, replaced only by the heat between her legs and the burning, twisting _ache._ She doesn’t think of her reputation – of the cons – the only thought in her mind is of how _good_ his mouth looks, how sweet his lips, how hot his touch.

The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s furious, biting, _passionate._ There’s a heat to it that’s laced in every touch, every sigh, every parting and meeting of skin. They’re already pressed tight against each other but she needs _more,_ feels a frustration that seems centuries-old shuddering through her abdomen. Stacey parts her lips and he swipes his tongue against them, reaching up to tangle his skeletal hands in her hair. He doesn’t pull, but his nails scratch gently on her scalp, and she pulls at his bottom lip with her teeth.

He’s _good._ Better than she expected; before, when she’d thought of how kissing Sam Greene would feel, she’d pictured heavy petting and bruising fingers. Instead, it’s all burning aches and throbbing _want,_ his tongue tasting of candy and the edge of his bite a welcome sensation.

Stacey has kissed boys before – all sweet, gentle touches – but none of this heady, hot desire that thrums through her, that sings of times forgotten, that seems so _familiar._

She arches her back, her hips rocking against his in a move she hasn’t dared to perform with anyone else, and he sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. It’s far from smooth – their pelvises meet and part in a crashing of desperation, each struggling for friction, operating on their own rhythm. It stops when he pulls her closer, planting his leg between hers. She _moans,_ bucks against him.

“ _Stacey_ ,” he hisses, “ _Stace_ –”

“Shut up,” she shoots back, between the kisses she trails on his jaw.

Sam, surprisingly, does as he’s told. He circles an arm round her waist, pressing her closer, and tilts her head back to graze his teeth on her neck. A soft whimper escapes her lips, and she feels his smirk against her skin, but she doesn’t care much. Her eyes slip closed as he pressed scorching lips and tongue against her collarbone, his lean leg pressed between hers.

She can’t think – her senses are overwhelmed, fuzzy – it’s all _Sam,_ his taste, his touch – the only thing that snaps her out of it is when he reaches down to slide his hand into her shirt. His fingers touch her smooth skin, and her eyes snap open.

“No –” Stacey exclaims, and jerks back.

Sam looks positively _ruined_ , his arms outstretched. His lips are red from the force of her kisses, his sweater rumpled from her hands. His chest heaves, his eyes wide. He wets his mouth, and the movement gives birth to a smug grin, blossoming over his handsome features.

“Well,” he begins huskily, and the ache only seems to _spread,_ “that was… interesting.”

Stacey gives a choked gasp, practically throws the fart bomb to the ground (it doesn’t detonate, thank _God_ ), and pushes past him.

She leaves him there, runs home, not looking back to see where he stands, with his fingers pressed to his lips, a smile playing on them that won’t be erased for days to come.

She has an awful feeling that the throbbing between her thighs, the quick pace of her heart and the urge in the back of her head to taste the sweet of his mouth again is just the beginning.

(her nights are filled with thoughts of his hand on her knee and his lips on her neck, and _lower_ )


End file.
